Sold for $1 To The Hawthorne Brothers

Alina's POV 

The man holding my arm doesn't loosen his grip even when I stumble on the marble step.

"Walk," he mutters under his breath, giving me a shove toward the stage.

My heels scrape awkwardly against the polished floor, the sound swallowed almost immediately by the low hum of voices filling the underground hall. 

The room smells faintly of expensive whiskey and cigar smoke, the kind my stepfather used to brag about being able to afford.

I swallow hard, forcing my shoulders back even as humiliation crawls up my spine.

Rows of people sit in shadowed booths, their faces half-hidden by dim golden lights. Everyone looks relaxed and entertained.

Like they're watching a show.

And I'm the entertainment.

The auctioneer stands behind a podium at the center of the stage. He's older, silver-haired, dressed in an immaculate tuxedo that probably costs more than everything I've ever owned combined. 

His eyes flick over me. "Next item," he announces smoothly.

My stomach twists.

I search the room instinctively until my gaze lands on the only person I know here.

My stepfather sits near the front, a glass of whiskey on the table in front of him. He looks away when I catch his gaze, grabbing his drink. 

His hand trembles as he brings it to his lips. Coward. 

Two hours ago, he told me we were attending a business party. He told me that he needed me. That I was going to play a huge role in helping out our small family. 

I was foolish enough to buy his lie. 

Now I'm standing on a stage while strangers look at me like livestock.

The auctioneer clears his throat lightly. "Twenty-one years old," he continues casually. "Healthy. Educated. No criminal record."

Someone chuckles and heat floods my face.

My stepfather finally looks up, his face red with shame.  He should be. He squandered the money my mother left behind when she died and gambled her company away. 

The auctioneer taps the gavel lightly against the podium.

"Opening bid," he says, voice carrying easily through the room, "ten thousand dollars."

My head hangs low as I wait for someone to speak. 

But there's only silence. I dare to raise my head and my stomach drops, catching the amused glances in the audience. Someone in the back snorts softly.

***

Ten seconds pass.

Then twenty.

My throat tightens. No one's bidding. Am I that undesirable? 

The auctioneer shifts slightly, clearing his throat. "Five thousand," he amends.

Still nothing. My face feels like it's about to explode from the embarrassment. The humiliation is worse than I imagined. 

Worse than anything.

Even as a debt payment, I'm apparently not worth the trouble.

The auctioneer sighs quietly, tapping the gavel again."Very well," he says. "One dollar."

One dollar? I turn to him, my eyes wide as saucers as laughter ripples across my room. He shrugs, nonchalantly. One dollar. From five thousand to the lowest currency. 

My stepfather looks shocked when I find him in the crowd, but